This time, he asked for permission to visit their apartment with the Fort Worth pitching coach later in the week.
Lena agreed, but only after asking five questions about credentials, costs, schedules, transportation, and whether anyone planned to put Isaiah on camera again.
Walter answered all five.
No cameras.
No promises.
No pressure.
When the call ended, Isaiah sat at the kitchen table with his father’s jersey folded beside him.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“What if this gets too big?”
Lena looked at him carefully.
“Then we slow it down.”
“What if people expect too much?”
“Then we remember they don’t own you.”
“What if I can’t throw it like that again?”
Lena sat across from him.
“Then you are still my son.”
Isaiah looked down.
She reached over and placed Malcolm’s old jersey between them.
“And you are still your father’s son.”
Isaiah touched the faded number 18.
Outside their apartment, the courtyard light flickered on.
The same light under which he had thrown thousands of unseen pitches.
For the first time, that light did not feel small.
It felt like the beginning of the story everyone else had only just noticed.
[End of Part 7]
Part 8
Walter Hayes arrived at the Reed apartment on Thursday evening with two people and no cameras.
That mattered to Lena.
The first person was Coach Daniel Ortiz, the pitching coach from Fort Worth.
He was in his early fifties, stocky, calm-eyed, with a soft voice and the kind of handshake that did not try to prove anything.
The second was Maya Chen, a youth sports physical therapist who worked with developing pitchers.
She carried a small equipment bag, a tablet, and a folding measuring tool.
Isaiah expected them to ask him to throw immediately.
They did not.
Coach Ortiz sat at the kitchen table first.
Maya asked about his arm.
Shoulder pain.
Elbow tightness.
How often he threw.
How many pitches.
How many days of rest.
Isaiah answered honestly at first.
Then hesitated.
Maya noticed.
“Isaiah, I’m not here to get you in trouble.”
He looked at his mother.
Lena said,
“Tell the truth.”
Isaiah swallowed.
“Sometimes I throw every day.”
Walter’s face tightened slightly.
Maya nodded without judgment.
“How many throws?”
“I don’t count.”
Coach Ortiz leaned back.
“That changes today.”
Isaiah looked worried.
“Is that bad?”
“It means you love throwing,” Ortiz said.
“That part is good.”
“Now we make sure loving it doesn’t hurt you.”
Maya checked his shoulder mobility.
Grip strength.
Balance.
Hip rotation.
She had him stand on one leg.
Raise his arm.
Turn his wrist.
Move slowly through a throwing motion without a ball.
When she finished, she looked at Lena.
“He’s flexible.”
“Good natural coordination.”
“But he needs strength work.”
“Especially hips, core, shoulder stability.”
Lena nodded carefully.
“And cost?”
Maya smiled gently.
“I’m donating the first assessment.”
Lena stiffened.
Walter quickly said,
“We discussed this.”
Lena looked at him.
“I appreciate help.”
“But I need to know what comes after free.”
Coach Ortiz nodded with respect.
“Good question.”
He placed a folder on the table.
“This is a twelve-week plan.”
“No travel team required.”
“No expensive facility required.”
“Two in-person visits a month.”
“Homework drills he can do safely.”
“I have a donor fund for three players per year.”
He looked at Isaiah.
“One spot is open.”
Isaiah stared at him.
Lena did not soften yet.
“What does the fund expect in return?”
Ortiz smiled.
“Work.”
“No promotional videos?”
“No.”
“No brand deal?”
“No.”
“No one using my son’s face to look generous?”
Ortiz looked her in the eyes.
“No, ma’am.”
Lena held his gaze a long moment.
Then nodded once.
“Then we can talk.”
Walter smiled faintly.
He liked Lena Reed more every time she protected her son.
They moved to the courtyard after sunset.
The porchlight flickered overhead.
Isaiah felt nervous bringing them there.
The cracked concrete suddenly looked more cracked.
The chain-link fence looked rustier.
The old mattress strike zone leaned against the wall like evidence of how little he had.
But Coach Ortiz did not laugh.
Maya did not look uncomfortable.
Walter looked around quietly, as if entering a place where something important had been built.
Isaiah picked up the baseball.
“The wall is the target.”
Ortiz studied the setup.
“How long you been throwing here?”
“Since I was nine.”
“Same ball?”
Isaiah nodded.
“Mostly.”
Ortiz looked at the mattress.
“And that?”
“My uncle tied it there.”
Walter smiled.
“Strike zone?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ortiz walked closer to the mattress and touched the worn center.
There were hundreds of marks.
Scuffs.
Dusty impacts.
Tiny tears.
He turned back to Walter.
“Not a story.”
Walter nodded.
“No.”
“Repetition.”
Isaiah stood beneath the porchlight.
For the first time, adults saw the place where the pitch had really been made.
Not the stadium.
Not the showcase.
Here.
Between apartment walls.
Under buzzing light.
With no crowd.
No radar gun.
No applause.
Ortiz handed Isaiah the ball.
“Show me easy throws first.”
Isaiah threw lightly.
Ten feet.
Then twenty.
Then into the mattress.
Ortiz watched his feet.
Maya watched his shoulder.
Walter watched his hand.
After a few minutes, Ortiz stopped him.
“You rush your front side.”
Isaiah nodded quickly.
“My dad said that.”
Ortiz smiled.
“Good.”
“Then we listen to your dad.”
He adjusted Isaiah’s stance by half an inch.
Not much.
Just enough.
“Again.”
Isaiah threw.
The ball hit the mattress with a cleaner sound.
Ortiz nodded.
“Better.”
Isaiah looked surprised.
“That small?”
“Baseball is small things done thousands of times.”
Walter said,
“That should be on a wall somewhere.”
Maya laughed softly.
Isaiah relaxed.
Near the end of the session, Ortiz asked to see the porchlight pitch.
Isaiah looked at Lena.
She stood near the stairwell, arms folded.
She did not say yes immediately.
Walter noticed.
Ortiz did too.
“We’ll do three,” Ortiz said.
“No more.”
Lena looked at Maya.
Maya nodded.
“Three is fine after warmup.”
Only then did Lena say,
“Okay.”
Isaiah set the grip.
The courtyard seemed to change around him.
